I stare at the text for a second before sending a quick no worries and no luck yet and standing up. On the other side of the wall, the opening bars of “Sunday Candy” ring out. The room reacts immediately, mostly with “oohs” and “ahhs” but also with a single male vice that yells “Overplayed!” He is immediately met with boos.

I hum along as I peel off my clothes and hang up my skirt in the wardrobe, then place my shirt and bra in my hamper.

I pull on my pink-and-white polka-dot pajamas. They’re the old-fashioned kind that button down the front and make me feel very put together and glamorous. At least, they usually do.

I pad across the room to the sink. There is one shower and toilet for the whole apartment, but each room has its own sink and mirror.

I set my phone on my little shelf below the mirror, where my skin products are arranged.

Tiff has only a toothbrush—mysteriously, no toothpaste to be seen. Is she using mine?—and a bar of soap, sans soap dish.

I sigh and grab a scrunchie, then pull my hair back and turn on the faucet. I scrub my face in circular motions, staring at myself in the mirror. The glass vibrates slightly from the music next door.

I splash water on my face, carefully apply toner, and then moisturize.

After setting a timer for two minutes, I brush my teeth.

“Shots, shots, shots!” they chant next door. I spit toothpaste into the sink a little too aggressively. I fix all the bottles so they are labels out and then pick up my phone and scroll to my RA’s contact.

Me: hey can you please ask them to quiet down. Room 212.

Greta (RA): Hi! I am not around the dorm right now, but maybe try whoever’s on call

Awesome, even my RA has more of a life than me. I shut off the light and get under the covers, pulling my comforter around me to make a little cocoon.

I sigh and open Snapchat. I click through the flashing images: of beer pong games and concerts downtown, of girls laughing over dinner and boys shotgunning beers at the count of one, two, three. There is even a Syllabus Week filter, so it is definitely, like, a thing. I watch grainy videos that pan around rooms like the ones next door. Girls wink at the camera and guys flip it off and everyone seems to be having a grand old time.

An alert flashes across the top of my screen and my heart betrays me by beating a little faster.

I have a Snapchat from Chris Miller.

I take a deep breath and open it. It’s a selfie in a car that features only part of his face and the boys behind him in the backseat.

Boys night the caption reads. He looks good. His eyes sort of sparkle from the flash.